A Sound that Echoes
by Thiefheart
Summary: A comeback story after a long period of absence. I do apologize for any OOCness since it's been a while since I've watched Death Note. Contains some Yaoi so if you don't like it, don't read it! It's okay, there aren't any... hardcore stuff here.


**A Sound that Echoes**

**AN: **I apologize in advance for OOCness since I haven't been watching Death Note in a while but I do have an idea of the characters in my head. Oh and the story does not follow the story line of the anime/manga. Plus the fact that I may have changed a few things around to my liking but it's kept relatively close to the original, k?

Enough talking, here's the comeback story you've been all waiting for!

**Prologue: Wishing**

Wishing; that's all I ever did. Wishing for my mother to come back. Wishing for a day where I could have friends. Wishing for a day where I can wear a real smile on my face. I never got any of that. I don't even know what it's like to be truly happy anymore. I don't even know if I can be considered a child.

To others, I was still a child. How ironic.

"_Is that your son? He's so adorable!"_

"_How old is he? Really? I'm sure he'll grow up to be a great man!"_

To them I was still innocent. To them they worry for the future for me and wish that I would never have to face any difficulties. They were so clueless, I had almost laughed at their stupidity. My life was never the way I wanted it to be ever since my mother suddenly disappeared when I was only a half year old. Her face was just a blur to me; the only thing I was clear about was that she had the most beautiful blonde hair. There were no pictures of her around the house and when I noticed that I asked my father why.

That was the first mistake I ever made and it costed me a lot. My father has never been well when my mother disappeared. I remembered how he had looked back then, drunk, tired and drained. That anger that would boil up in his eyes every time I tried to talk to him. But that day, there was something else in his eyes. _He drank too much._

I was just 6 years old but my mind containing intelligence of a 12 year old. Yet still much too young to understand what was going to happen next. And when I finally detected danger, it was too late.

My father has never been well. What he did to me that night still stayed with me now. I should've said something, call the police, run to the neighbor's house, anything. But no matter what, the words just couldn't come out of my mouth. I didn't know what I was thinking. Maybe I thought it was only this time and my father wouldn't do it again. Maybe I thought my father had enough grieving and decided not to make it worse.

Why? Just… why?

The single worded question stayed with me day and night, always left unanswered. I knew better that my father wouldn't just do something like _that_ and leave it as it is. The same thing happened again and again until fear had long sealed my ability to speak. I should've said something while I could but I couldn't. I was too _weak_.

Months later, we moved to England where my father locked me up in my room which I soon called my personal jail. All chances of talking to anyone I know or asking for help disappeared when we settled in into this foreign land. This was part of my father's plan all along, to make me completely helpless. My father had gotten money from his friends and managed to get a raise in his job in order to pay for this flight. I had always thought my father wouldn't be capable of anything when my mother left. But then I realized, he was using me as a substitute for my mother. That's how he got over it so suddenly.

To me, I'm just another object in the drawer. Once he's done with me he puts me back into the small old room so he'll know where I am next time he wants to "use" me.

Sitting in my personal jail, I laughed. A rather bitter, hysteric laughter that could be mistaken for a mad man's. I delusional I've been through the past two years and here I am, sitting in the monster's house hopelessly locked in. Only now the complete picture was held right in front of me, after so many months of piecing it together.

I gripped my legs, pulling them closer to my chest. It's been two years, two whole fucking years. My father would still give me food three times a day since he needed me alive but despite his efforts I grew as skinny as a stick. My father was the definition of hell himself, why should I live for him?

_No more, _I thought as I slowly stopped laughing. I don't want any more of this torturing. I want out. I slowly stood up, stumbling slightly from being in the same position for too long. I looked around the room dully and found myself gazing at my appearance in the mirror.

My blonde hair has long out grown. My father would cut it at times but I wanted him nowhere near me. He obliged for once but still continued his little habit of keeping me locked up in my room. My dull blue eyes no longer showed the life like everyone said about me. Instead of the happy child I once was, I have changed into a colder, darker self.

I turned away, disgusted by my own image. I walked towards the door, my legs not used to walking since the room was all I ever knew, there was no use for walking. I reached for the door knob and turned it. I expected it to be locked like always. I didn't even know why I was checking now even though I knew that.

The door was open.

**AN:** I'll end it off here! Hope you're enjoying this so far! Yes, the character that is narrating right now is Mello. He's… around 8 years old when the story ended. Pretty sad back story huh? Pretty cheesy too, sorry XP This is a completely new fan-fiction! Hope this has as many reads as Thief Takes Time had…

A bit edited, if something doesn't make sense please tell me! Don't forget to Review too!

My eyes slowly widened as I pushed the door outwards, revealing the hallways ahead. A huge smile spread across my face, the first smile in ages. The door was open! Father must've forgotten to lock the door hell, I don't even care why the door was open! I laughed and dashed outside, my legs carrying as fast as they could go downstairs.

I found no one in the living room. My father was probably at work at a time like this. I kept running, out the door, out of the house and down the streets. My socks hit the pavement as I ran away from the house as fast as I could. I didn't give a damn that it was a dark cloudy day. Anywhere's better than home!


End file.
